


Folks Vignettes (Johnny and Billy)

by Piper



Series: Folks One Shots [1]
Category: American Civil War RPF, American Folklore, Original Work, Religion & Lore - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: American Civil War, American Politics, Civil War, Folklore, Gen, Legends, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Original Character, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:12:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piper/pseuds/Piper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twin brothers Johnny Reb and Billy Yank start over 152 years, seven deaths, two world wars, and one mangled relationship after The Battle of Fort Sumter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Folks Vignettes (Johnny and Billy)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yabamena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yabamena/gifts), [slipsthrufingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipsthrufingers/gifts).



> In an effort to force myself to start writing this series again I'm writing about various characters in my original fic world based on prompts from friends. This was "Johnny and Billy. Competition. Cherries. Summer."
> 
> Some background is definitely missing here, but it still stands alone. (It's also very much not betaed >.>)

“I invite you into John Chapman's home and you show up with a bag of cherries?” 

“Well, I reckoned he ain't wanting for apples, is he?” 

Johnny Davis wasn't surprised when his twin acknowledged his comment with no more than a grunt before removing himself from the middle of the door frame. That was about as much of “how do,” as he was likely to get. He stepped through before Billy –he'd call the boy Will over his dead body and not a moment sooner-- changed his mind. 

The apartment above the Appleseed Diner was blessedly cool for a July afternoon. A draft blew against Johnny's neck like there was a window somewhere that opened straight onto the arctic tundra. It was just the air conditioning of course and he scoffed at his own greenhornish marvel at the thing, but it was a luxury he had trouble envisioning ever obtaining in his little cabin out at Elmira.

“Close the door,” Billy said. Johnny realised he'd been staring up at the air vent while his brother stared at him from a few feet away. “John hates it when you let the air out.”

Johnny decided there was a certain irony in the fact that Billy'd found himself a John to falsely call a relation. “If you had a porch, some lemonade and a bottle of gin like a normal person you wouldn't have foolish problems like that.”

“In civilization we don't sit out on our porches, drinking with firearms in our laps.” Billy referred to the time just a few months back when he'd shown up at Elmira, Josie Parris in tow, looking to ask Johnny for help and had been shot at for his trouble. 

In Johnny's defense, it'd only been buckshot and he figured there had to be worse ways to greet your twin brother after over a century apart. After all, no one had died, and given their history that was a win in and of itself.

“I apologised for that,” Johnny reminded him.

“Only to Josie.”

He shrugged. “I like her more.”

“My, my times really have changed.” If that was meant to be muttered Billy did a poor job of it. Johnny held his tongue, knowing that if he rose to the bait this early into things it wouldn't be a long visit. 

Instead he held up the cherries, packed in a small crisp brown paper bag folded over neatly at the top. “I figured we'd try this whole long-lost reunion thing again,” he said. “Apparently the Gunn orchards're still standing. 'Least according to the sign at the booth I bought these from. It was sure around the right area-- it'd be nice to think it's their kin still running the place.”

Johnny watched Billy consider the cherries and the words that came with them. “The orchards up by Elmira?”

“The very same.”

“They were Quakers, the Gunns.”

“I remember you'd tell me about them. The prison was wild with scurvy and flux and with no oranges, cherries helped make it tolerable for some. So they'd leave part of the harvest out for people to take up to prisoners.” Johnny met his brother's eyes. “It's one of the few kindnesses I ever got while I was in there. Figured I'd return the favour.”

His words weren't meant to be vicious, yet Johnny couldn't hold back some of the bite in his tone. They were a century, two world wars, and a broken relationship removed from the conflict of their inception. He carried the scars from Elmira floggings, the lesions from Elmira diseases, and the nightmares from Elmira realities, but he couldn't (shouldn't) carry a grudge. 

When they got down to it Johnny had ultimately lost himself a war, but he'd won in American folklore. His power seeped off every pickup truck down south with a confederate sticker plastered on it's bumper, flowed from every home in upstate New York with the stars and bars hanging down its porch, strummed along through every absentmindedly whistled bar of Dixie, and strengthened with every call for states rights and secession that steeped their foundation in Civil War myth. 

Everyone remembered Johnny Reb and his Confederacy-- or at least they thought they did.

No one truly had the right of it. No one except for Billy.

Billy Yank who would likely live forever, just like Johnny, but whose power started and sputtered from time to time because while he'd won the war in the end, no one really remembered him for it.

So he felt a little bad for the bite in his words, because as much as he was loathe to admit it, it might be nice to have a brother to speak to again. Even if it was in barbs and jests. 

It was Billy's turn to be the bigger man and he managed it admirably, taking the bag from Johnny. “They were good cherries.”

“They were,” Johnny allowed.

Billy gestured vaguely behind himself. He pointed at an open doorway just down the hall from where they still stood in the vestibule. “The living room's there. I, uh, set up the usual.”

“Chess?”

“Yeah.” Billy ran a hand through his hair almost sheepishly. “The set's plastic.”

As many chess sets were and that was fine, but both brothers could at once nearly feel their own hand carved wooden pieces rolling between their fingers. There'd been a time when they'd leave them hidden away for each other on a field before battle. Johnny squeezed his hand shut and allowed himself a small grin. “That'll do. Wood or plastic, if standards hold I'll still have more of a mind for the game than you ever did.”

Billy snorted. “Says you who lost at Five Forks.”

“I won Mansfield.”

“Nearly a year before.”

It would have been easy to continue, but Johnny came up short in his reply not quite trusting the teasing rhythm they'd slipped into so effortlessly. It was normal sibling banter, but how was he supposed to know that?

Billy stiffened in the silence and pointed to the doorway again. He was slightly more reserved again when he spoke. “Have a seat. I'll be right in. You want some water or something?”

“You got whiskey?” 

“We're 17.”

“I'm 152 years old , I'm a tax payer and I'm a veteran.” 

He learned something then, about his brother and himself, as he watched Billy come to terms with his words. He learned that while he was most certainly all of his 152 years of age, there was the very distinct possibility that Billy was, for all intents and purposes, 17. A teenager truly in the ways that mattered. 

They both were in a way. Johnny's body carried evidence of war, but to any casual eye he looked like any other country teen in his jeans, boots, and button downs. He wore his hair pulled back in a messy queue that allowed, most important, a clear line of sight without it getting into his face, but also had a rather positive effect on the fairer sex. Something about dangerously sharp cheekbones and blue eyes that he'd heard quite a lot of over the years. 

He lived in a log cabin with his gun and his Stars and Bars. He drank when he wanted to, hunted down his food more often than not, and had gone one whole winter with no indoor plumbing because pissing in the woods was easier and cheaper than calling the plumber. He worked as a grounds keeper at the Elmira historical site where everyone thought he was a brooding 24 year old from Georgia. 

Billy, on the other hand, had neatly cropped streaky brown hair, solemn brown eyes, and an All American jawline that probably made housewives swoon. He could pass for older, Johnny thought, but 17 seemed to suit him and he didn't look to be trying to escape it. He was wearing jeans and a Kith Harbour High baseball tee and Johnny suddenly realised that it was quite possible that his brother was in _high school_. He lived above the diner in this comfortable, air conditioned apartment under the guardianship of John Chapman of all people and –despite the strange circumstances of their reuniting-- likely paid attention to things like homework and curfews.

They were both 17, technically. They were twins, both young soldiers thrown into war. But for now Johnny was the older brother. There was probably some sort of responsibility that came with that.

Billy looked thoughtful for a moment. “John has some apple brandy in his bedroom. Will that do?”

Responsibility could come later. “That'll do fine, I reckon, so long as you bring two glasses.”

“Go on in then. I'll be right there,” he said, starting towards the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder only once before stepping inside. His words and tone were pleasantly lacking in practiced modernity. “Don't steal nothin'.”

Johnny managed not to smile –a true, genuine smile-- until Billy had turned back around. He took himself into the living room and,easily spotting the chess board --with the promised plastic pieces that had been clearly Sharpie-ed grey and blue with haste- sat down in a plush leather chair on the side of the greys. 

By the time Billy entered, balancing two glasses, a bottle of brandy, and a bowl of cherries, Johnny had stolen nothing aside from the first move.


End file.
